When he was young, he often dreamed of flying. Standing on the top of a high building, he will jump and then soar through the clouds to rejoin his mother. Great distances disappear in the single-minded flight of his imagination. He is free, at least during such moments, unconscious of being free and of his insufferable longing. But the end inevitably comes. He would wake up, only to find himself still a prisoner of his bed. There was no one around him, except the motionless curtain unmoved by any hint of daylight.

Last night, he dreamed a new dream. He found that he could no longer fly. He remembered a time when it seemed still real, when all was still possible. But it was just an illusion. Sadness. It occurred to him that before the flight, before the idea of flight, he wanted to jump from a high building, was thinking about falling, falling down. Falling not from life, as there was no life in the first place. Not to death, for there is no ground underneath. No one to catch him nor his wish to die. And thus he kept flying, in the indeterminate space devoid of voices and words.

It is as if he has finally found, not the imagined flight, but a ground, a resting place, an abyss’s end, on which he could just lie down and feel safe. To accept the inescapable, to touch the ineffable, the unfelt, unlived yet ever-present part inside, a luminous source in the darkness. To hear again for the first time, another voice calling, in the first notes of a shared light.